


The boundless extent in which three values are required to determine the position of an element

by saderaladon



Category: Marilyn Manson (Band)
Genre: Anal Sex, Ass to Mouth, Dirty Talk About Feces, Double Anal Penetration, Drug Use, Ginger Fish is beyond any help, I am still writing "fucking" all the time absolutely for free, John 5 is an angel, John 5 plays guitar, M/M, Multi, Poor Ginger Fish, Relationship Issues, Smoking, Threesome - M/M/M, Tim Skold fucks up, Tim Skold is not a role model, very homo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-04-24 03:58:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19165360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saderaladon/pseuds/saderaladon
Summary: The guys take an emotionally charged and somewhat disgusting road trip.





	The boundless extent in which three values are required to determine the position of an element

**Author's Note:**

> Hello. 
> 
> Warnings incoming!
> 
> This text is going to hurt you.  
> I am sorry, but this is what literature exists for: describing road trips full of disgusting substances and making people suffer.
> 
> This text is a sequel to the previous Manson fics of mine. You probably need to be familiar with them to understand what's going on. Especially with this one: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19015726
> 
> Certain individuals have a learning disability. Certain other individuals love them no matter what and get hurt because of that. Certain other individuals are saints.
> 
> Don't try anything like that at home and use wet wipes.
> 
> People having conversations about human feces upped their game, so beware if you're squeamish.
> 
> I did zero research for this text. I don't even drive and I've never been anywhere near the area of the world I am describing. I just looked at the map. The country the guys are travelling through is a magical fictional land full of gay weed hurrah! 
> 
>  
> 
> This text wasn't meant to be enjoyed, but I still hope you will.  
> It all ends well.
> 
>  
> 
> English is not my native language.  
> Nobody here belongs to me.

*****

The taxi driver looks at him expectantly.

"Oh, shit, man, sorry," Tim says and sits up. "I am a bit dumb right now."

He gives him the address. They get out of the parking lot, and Tim slides down the seat again.

 _I am a dope shark_ , he thinks and suppresses a grin.

It is as if he is still high somehow from the farewell party, even though it ended God knows when and he took two fucking flights after that and even slept in the airport.

He wonders if his brain chemistry is permanently screwed after that many drugs and that much oral sex.

Tim chuckles and gets a stare from the driver.

"Don't mind me," he says. "I'm just happy to be home."

 

He watches the city lights flickering in the dark through the window with hooded eyes, half asleep, and imagines Ginger's hot pliant body covered in blankets, imagines pressing his snout into his hair and wrapping his hand around his late night slash early morning erection. He doesn't go further than that, deciding he doesn't need one of his own right now, not while they are still driving, and just thinks about it in a loop.

How Ginger's going to open the door, sleepy and wrinkled and not wearing any pants, how Tim's going to push him in and get inside and push him again, until they are in the bedroom, how Ginger's going to try and hide under the blankets, groaning, how Tim's going to do something horrible to him to lure him out, how Ginger's going to break and fall into his arms, allowing him everything and anything, panting and feverish and asking fucking questions about his time abroad, how Tim's going to do everything and anything to him and tell him the most fucked up story he can remember.

He stops there and skips the best part. He imagines instead how they are going to sleep, pressed into each other, and how he is going to dream about the magical sea creatures traversing large distances in the vastness of the ocean. He imagines instead how he is going to make them breakfast when they finally wake up and how Ginger is going to moan with his mouth full. He imagines instead how they are going to go to John's after that and take his fucking guitar from him and most definitely fuck him on his hands and knees.

Then he goes back to the beginning and repeats the sequence of events in his head, watching the flickering city lights in the dark through the window with hooded eyes.

 

He still gets fucking hard, so getting out of the taxi and then dragging his luggage out of the trunk is immensly difficult. It is especially challenging with the huge bass guitar he bought a week before departure and now can't wait to show to the stupid moaning kissing bastards.

The driver loses his patience with him in the middle of all that and they have a bit of a shouting match, and then Tim just gives him a shit ton of money and the middle finger as he drives away and hauls his battered body full of drugs, hopes, dreams and fucking feels to the entrance.

 

Ginger doesn't open the door.

Tim knocks for fuck knows how long, but nobody opens the door.

He grabs at the door knob and pulls at it.

Then he looks at his dust covered hand and wonders why Ginger isn't opening the fucking door.

Like, with his actual dope shark head thinks the genuine thought.

 

 _Fuck_ , Tim thinks.

 _Maybe_ , he thinks, _maybe it is because you both came back from the last tour in ruins._

 _Maybe_ , he thinks, _maybe it is because you personally came back from the last tour furious with Brian and the management and with the whole visible universe and with the pink fucking unicorn too._

 _Maybe_ , he thinks, _maybe it is because you spent the week after that with your throat full of dry leaves, mold and feathers, your chest a barren ice desert where temperature never rises above absolute zero._

 _Maybe_ , he thinks, _maybe it is because Ginger spent the same week touching you with his tender loving tentacles, feeding you with terrible mashed bullshit he made, bringing you cigarettes, taking care of you, being patient with you, asking you polite questions and opening the door really carefully, as if scared._

 _Maybe_ , he thinks, _maybe it is because all of that made you even more furious, and you felt like a trapped predator and wasn't shy to show your teeth._

 _Maybe_ , he thinks, _maybe it is because a fucking thought crossed your dumb shark mind that shit is about to happen and you called John to ask for fucking help, but heard him playing and heard him giggling, and that made you even more furious, and you said nothing._

 _Maybe_ , he thinks, _maybe it is because you sat in the kitchen on the floor, where you belong, flipping your phone and smoking through the second package of that day, and Ginger opened the door really carefully, as if scared, and asked you a polite fucking question._

 _Maybe_ , he thinks, _maybe it is because you flipped your shit instantly, jumping up and starting shouting, actually shouting with your genuine unforgivable fucking mouth, saying you hate everything about him, saying you hate his stupid face and his polite questions and the way he opens the door really carefully with his scared fucking fingers he keeps touching you with, thinking even more than that._

 _Maybe_ , he thinks, _maybe it is because you wondered out loud what would finally make him fuck off, as if the previous tirade wasn't enough, and Ginger started shaking and Ginger started crying and covered his pale devastated face with his soft, amenable, accommodating hands._

 _Maybe_ , he thinks, _maybe it is because you just made a sound that shouldn't be fucking allowed to exist in this universe and went out of the kitchen, brushing past him, went into the bedroom and listened to music with your headphones on, smoking and looking at the ceiling without a single thought in your mind, with a really massive black hole devouring everything there._

 _Maybe_ , he thinks, _maybe it is because quite some time later you entered the kitchen to get your phone which you'd left there and saw Ginger sleeping on the fucking chair._

 _Maybe_ , he thinks, _maybe it is because you made that sound again and went out of the kitchen again, went out of the house too, just cigarettes and a credit card in your pocket, and took a taxi to the fucking airport._

 _Maybe_ , he thinks, _maybe it is because you told neither Ginger nor John where you were going._

 _Maybe_ , he thinks, _maybe it is because you've been gone for more than a month._

 

 _Maybe_ , he thinks, _maybe, Tim, it is because of that._

 

Tim thinks all of that and then thinks it again, over and over.

Tim opens his luggage and ransacks it, looking for keys, and then remembers he left without them.

Tim sits near the front door until it is ten in the morning, his face in his hands.

Tim leaves his gutted luggage and his bass guitar by the front door.

Tim takes a taxi.

 

"Fucking hell, Tim," John says, standing in the doorway, weirdly enough not dressed like a pimp primadonna. "What the fuck do you need?"

"Keys," Tim says with his dry mouth full of feathers, dust and dry leaves.

 

"Fucking hell, Tim," John says, shoving the keys into his hand. "Where the fuck have you been?"

"Amsterdam," Tim says, feeling the rigor mortis taking over his battered body.

 

John says nothing.

Tim says nothing.

They stand and look at each other.

 

Tim feels the familiar smell of bile and pills coming through the door.

"Is he sick?" Tim asks.

"Yes," John says.

''I..." Tim says. "If he doesn't want to see me I can—"

"Of course he fucking wants to see you," John says.

 

 _I am not sure I want to see you, Tim_ , Tim thinks.

 _I am getting tired of your damn fuck ups, Tim_ , Tim thinks.

 _Do you understand that you just need to fuck off, Tim_ , Tim thinks.

 

"I am not sure I want to see you, Tim," John says.

"I am getting tired of your damn fuck ups, Tim," John says.

 

 _I watched the jamb of seventeen cranes flying over the hills to the north and now I know_ , Tim thinks.

 _The visigoths are coming_ , Tim thinks.

 _The Empire is about to fall_ , Tim thinks.

 

"Do you understand that this thing only works with all three of us?" John asks.

Tim shudders.

"Fuck, Tim," John says. "Go away, okay? Go away and think really hard and come up with something to make me forgive you, okay? Come up with something good, or I don't know what I am going to do. Or I don't know what we're going to do."

Tim opens his mouth, dust, mold and feathers falling out of it.

"Fuck off, okay? Fuck off and fix this," John says, pushing him.

"Okay," Tim says.

"And check your fucking email while you're at it," John shouts after him.

 

Tim gets into the house and roams about it, touching every dust covered surface.

Tim turns on his phone and dials Brian's number after seeing oh so many missed calls.

Brian shouts at him and asks where the fuck he's been, and Tim shouts back and says he's been doing drugs and now he's going to be having a nervous breakdown, citing personal reasons.

Brian says 'okay' and hangs up, bringing some fucking joy to that miserable day.

Tim roams about the house some more, touching every dust covered surface again and throwing stuff on the floor.

Tim smokes his way through the whole package.

Tim checks his email, and first he sees just letters from people asking him for help and thanking him for help, but then he scrolls down and sure enough, there they are. All fourteen billion letters from Ginger.

Some of the earlier ones he opens tell him Ginger hates him.

Next ones tell him Ginger wants to know where he is.

Next ones tell him Ginger is sorry.

 

Tim gets up and punches the wall a couple of times after that.

 

Next ones tell him Ginger wants him to come back.

Next ones tell him Ginger loves him.

The massive amount of last ones tells him a single line over and over again.

 

Please don't go.

Please don't go.

Please don't go.

 

On top of them, like a fucking cherry on a cake, is a ten days old letter from John.

The letter which tells him "please do."

 

 _Come up with something good, Tim_ , Tim thinks.

 _What can I come up with_ , he thinks.

 _We should just take a long ass drive into the fucking desert_ , he thinks.

 _We should stop in the middle of nowhere and I should dig a shallow fucking grave_ , he thinks, _because neither one of you would be able to._

 _We should stop there and after I've dug a shallow fucking grave I should just shoot myself in my dumb fucking head,_ he thinks _, because four of your hands were meant for different things._

 _We should just do that_ , Tim thinks.

 

*****

 

They hit the road three days later.

Tim drives from early morning till early afternoon, smoking and tapping on the steering wheel with the fingers of his hand wrapped in dirty bandages.

John sits in the seat next to him, radiating waves of contempt.

Ginger lies in the back of the car, still sniffing and blowing his nose.

They stop near a diner not far from the border, Ginger and John sitting together at the table, drinking milkshakes and throwing dirty napkins at each other, whispering and smiling, Tim standing next to the counter, forcibly pushing the food down his throat.

Then John gets into the driver's seat and Tim sits next to him, smoking, while Ginger keeps sniffing in the back of the car.

They spend three fucking hours at the border, filling forms, Tim just shoving money into everybody's faces in the end.

John gets into the driver's seat again and Tim sits next to him again, smoking, while Ginger eats peanuts in the back of the car and offers them to John.

They stop in the middle of nowhere when all three of them are completely exhausted, and Ginger sleeps next to John on the blankets they throw on the ground. Tim sleeps in the driver's seat, his shoulders that of a repudiated wooden idol.

 

The next morning they break the sound barrier.

Tim gets up and makes coffee and breakfast, using a gas-burner, and Ginger says "thanks" when Tim gives him the cup and then "thanks" again when Tim gives him the plate.

Tim drives through the countryside, further inland, and John sits with Ginger in the back of the car, both of them chewing on peanuts, and John offers some to Tim.

They stop in a city the name of which not one of them can pronounce, Tim thinking maybe they should've headed north instead of south, and walk around it, poking into the cathedral and eating beans out of the can with their bare fingers, John pointing at stuff, Ginger pale and glancing at Tim now and then, Tim considering both his temple and his mouth as spots for gun placement, never quite managing to choose between them, thinking maybe he somehow should do both for hurting each of the bastards.

They hike the hill overlooking the city and sit there till it's dark, watching the sunset, Tim giving a cigarette to Ginger when he runs out of his own, accidentally brushing against his fingers, both of them shuddering at the touch.

They drive further inland for a couple of hours, John behind the wheel, Tim next to him, Ginger with a book and a torch in the back of the car.

They stop in the middle of nowhere, and their sleeping arrangements are the same as the previous night, only this time before falling asleep and feeling pain in his back even when unconscious Tim gets to listen to Ginger and John fuck in the tent Tim put up for them next to the car, careful not to catch any words being said, not sure he'll be able to swallow them, because he chokes even on the tone of their voices, their sweet muffled moans.

The next day they cross the mountain range, all three of them looking at the landscape and pointing at stuff, stopping for lunch in some godforsaken little town that is not very welcoming. John asks Tim if he's really sure he doesn't speak any Spanish and Ginger laughs softly at that, the sound hitting Tim hard. They still walk around the town and John decides to bond with the locals using the universal language of music and plays guitar sitting on the ground, which, surprisingly, works. John plays guitar sitting on the ground, people surrounding him and several children even dancing, while Ginger and Tim sit on the bench, an infinitely large space devoid of all the elementary particles between them, both of them trying to fill it with smoke and failing, until Ginger sighs and touches Tim's hand with his fingers that have never been that scared, and Tim remembers many instances to compare this one with.

John says that he is rich now, because locals actually gave him some fucking money for his performance, and they buy ice-creams and eat them, stopping just outside of the town, all three of them leaning on the car.

John gets into the driver's seat after that and Ginger opens the door to sit next to him, when Tim decides fucking sharks should display more courageous behaviour if they want to be allowed back into the ocean and touches Ginger's scared hand with his fingers that still feel like they are covered in dust collected from all the surfaces he touched when roaming about his own empty house. Ginger jumps at the touch, looks at him with an expression that falls out of the scope of even Mona Lisa's capabilities and then sits with him in the back of the car, letting Tim hold his hand. John eyes them before starting the car, turning around, and says he'll be watching them closely, so no funny business.

John drives till it's dark, fiddling with the radio all the time, while Ginger reads his book sitting next to Tim. Tim reads it too, over his shoulder, unable to follow the author's train of thought, but sticking with it nevertheless. When John gets tired of fiddling with the radio they play some of the CDs Tim threw inside the car along with a shit ton of everything else, careful to take into consideration all possible scenarios and maybe even a few impossible ones. They sing along to a couple of the songs. They laugh. The three of them finally fucking laugh.

They stop in the middle of nowhere, Tim drags out several large bottles of water he threw inside the car and all three of them have a wash, jumping on one foot and awkward, Ginger washing John's hair and saying "fuck it" when John offers to do his. When Tim goes to suffer tedious physical pain in the car John grabs at his hand and says "fuck it". They throw blankets on the ground, and Tim lies down next to them, but separately and not very close, keeping the fucking distance that is gradually filling with elementary particles, and listens to them jerk each other off under the blankets, swearing and saying each other's names a lot, John turning around and sticking his tongue out at him once they are done, barely visible in the moonlight.

 

Tim wakes up, feeling thirsty, and gets up quietly. He walks to the car, crossing the now almost dry patch of land that they turned into a fucking swamp some hours earlier, takes out a can of warm beer and downs it. He is lighting up a cigarette when he hears Ginger cursing under his breath right behind him, stumbling in his slippers.

"Why are you up?" Tim asks.

Ginger shrugs, his face barely visible in the moonlight too.

"Beer?" Tim asks.

Ginger nods, and Tim gives him another can of warm bullshit.

Ginger takes several sips. Ginger takes a step forward, closing the not so infinite distance between them, standing now right beside him, maybe even inside him, his breath on Tim's unforgivable face.

Tim hugs him, and they stand like that for a while.

"Come on, let's get into the car," Tim says and drags Ginger into the back of it.

They throw some blankets on the floor, Tim grateful to his previous self for taking an indeed infinite number of those, and sit down, Ginger's head landing in Tim's lap almost immediately.

Tim combs his dirty hair for fourteen billion years.

"Where did you go?" Ginger asks.

"Amsterdam," Tim says.

Ginger hums.

"What did you do in there? Did you have fun?" Ginger asks next, and Tim decides right there and then he should shoot himself in the fucking nuclear bomb he has for heart.

And luckily by that time he does have it.

Luckily by that time it is back.

Luckily it is fully on.

"Fucking hell, Ginger," he spits out, unable to breathe properly. "How can you even ask that after what I've done? After what I've said."

"Donno," Ginger says. "I uh... Just fucking tell me."

"Fuck, Ginger," Tim says and pulls him up. "I told you I hated you. Everything about you. How you open the fucking door."

Ginger gulps, grabs at the package and lights up a cigarette.

"I know. But you didn't really think that, did you?"

Tim laughs out loud.

Tim lights up a cigarette too.

"I thought much more than that."

Tim takes a drag and tells him everything he thought.

About his awkwardness he cannot stand. About his nerdy books. About his dumb eyes looking at Tim in awe no matter what. About him letting Tim do anything to him. About him being just a fucking jelly and not even a real person.

Tim makes a long speech.

They smoke three cigarettes each while Tim narrates his inner shit to Ginger, trying not to stop for long enough to hear his breath.

"And I even thought a couple of things about your... about your shit problem," Tim adds at the end. Fucking cherry on fucking top.

"Fuck, Tim," Ginger says and shakes several times next to him. "That's..."

"Yeah, exactly," Tim says and shakes too. "I spent these last two and a half years with my hand inisde your rib cage getting to know how to hurt you the most. I've learned really fucking well."

"Fuck," Ginger says and slides down to lie in his lap again.

Tim puts his fingers through his dirty hair, his hand radiating energy and shame.

"The things I cherish about you are the same things I despise you for," Tim says.

"Fuck," Ginger says and presses his face into Tim's stomach.

"Yeah," Tim says and runs his hand over his hair some more.

"So what did you do in Amsterdam?" Ginger asks, turning his head and looking up at him. "Did you have fun?"

Tim takes a drag and tells him everything he did in Amsterdam.

How he was having fun while Ginger was writing him increasingly devastating letters.

About all the pills he took and all the weed he smoked and all the cocaine he snorted. About the book fucking club he went to and about the expat fucking club he also went to. About all the people he chatted up there. About all the clubs with music he didn't like he danced at. About all the people he engaged in oral sex with in there. About all the herring he stuffed his face with. About that time when he almost got arrested. About that time when he fell into a canal. About that time when he spent the whole day watching the mills. About the awesome fucking bass guitar he bought. About all the studios he pulled the strings and turned the knobs at.

Ginger smiles at him when he stops.

"I wanna see your bass guitar," he says.

"Okay," Tim says. "When we get back you will. It's at home."

"I'd... I'd really love to go to Amsterdam together with you," Ginger says then.

"So that I can eat you alive all over again just like I did in Berlin?" Tim asks, touching his teeth with his tongue.

Ginger laughs.

"We can go," Tim says. "We can go, if you want. Live there for fucking months. Play jazz in cover bands."

"Yeah?" Ginger asks.

"Yeah," Tim says. "We can take John too. I'll need to tie him up first, of course. Drag him along. He isn't as charitable as you are, you know."

Ginger laughs again and sits up.

"Want a good night kiss?" Tim asks, looking at him.

"Yeah," Ginger says.

 

They kiss.

They fucking kiss.

 

*****

 

John looks at them suspiciously in the morning, while Tim makes breakfast on a gas-burner.

"What's going on?" he asks Ginger when Ginger comes back after taking a leak.

"We've established communication," Tim says and gives both of them their cups.

Ginger nods.

"You sick fucks," John says. "Okay. Alright. Let's try this."

 

Ginger says he wants to drive after they finish their breakfast, so Tim sits with John in the back of the car and they read Ginger's book from the beginning, or rather Tim reads and John makes it harder for him, jabbing him with his magical fingers once in a while and asking what this or that word even means. And sometimes not asking anything.

They stop in another godforsaken town and buy more food.

They have lunch in the middle of nowhere and then just run after each other in there, laughing like mad, all three of them falling on the ground eventually and getting covered in dust.

Then John plays some of the tunes he composed while Tim was gone and Ginger tells him about John's gig John dragged his miserable rotting carcass to.

John asks what Tim was doing that day.

"Dope," Tim says, swallowing the bile.

John throws rocks at him and then gets into the driver's seat and they cross miles of boring flat landscapes, Tim sitting in the back of the car with Ginger, all three of them chatting about things Tim never thought he would even consider as a topic of conversation.

They stop before it is dark and watch the sun go down, John and Ginger kissing each other, leaning on the car, Tim mostly bending over and collecting sticks for the fire.

Then Tim starts the fire while both of the kissing bastards just get in the way, because four of their hands weren't meant for that either, and they sit around it, eating sausages and marshmallows they stick inside the flames.

Tim brushes John's hair before they go to sleep - Tim again a few meters away from them, because John says there hasn't been enough bribery yet and he is not that fucking easy.

They gradually fall asleep.

 

Tim wakes up feeling a familiar scared touch of Ginger's fingers on his hand. He opens his eyes, licking his dry lips.

"What?" he asks.

Ginger just pulls him up and drags him to the car. They share a can of beer. Tim takes out a couple of blankets and a torch and they walk a bit further down the road, turning after thirty meters. They throw the blankets on the ground and sit on them, smoking, Tim running his fingers over Ginger's thighs.

Ginger puts out his cigarette and takes Tim's from him and puts it out too. They both undress, helping each other, and then hug for a minute or so, naked and getting hard.

Tim touches Ginger, going from head to toe, but doesn't reach the final destination, getting intterrupted around the knees.

"Tim," Ginger says. "Can you... I want... Fuck me."

Tim looks at his face, grey in the dim light of the torch, knowing the true color of it nevertheless.

"Lube's in the car," Tim says, his mouth going dry. "Buried somewhere deep too. I wasn't very hopeful about all of this, you know."

"I don't care," Ginger says.

"It's gonna hurt," Tim says.

Ginger laughs.

Tim looks at him laughing for several seconds and then chuckles too.

"Okay," he says. "Spread your damn legs."

Tim stretches him using his own saliva, licking his cock now and then, talking about shit because Ginger gets pretty jittery pretty fast.

Ginger moans and shivers.

"Alright," Tim says and pulls him up, making him straddle his thighs. "You're still clenching your dumb shithole tight and it is going to really sting. We can commence."

Ginger curses him and all of his ancestry.

Then he shuts up and just whimpers pathetically at the pain, Tim pushing him down on his cock, slowly, but without any fucking mercy.

He's soaked in sweat when Tim's finally inside, shaking and grabbing at Tim's shoulders.

"Hurts?" Tim asks, the weapon of mass destruction in his chest speaking for him.

"Fuck," Ginger says. "Yeah. Fucking hurts."

"Alright then," Tim says and nudges him to move. "Start fucking your shit."

Ginger moans and moves, stumbling and losing his balance as always, his wet fingers sliding down Tim's shoulders, his hands shaking, his hole hot and tight around Tim's cock.

"Fuck, Tim," he says. "Can you... Can you talk?"

Tim can, of course.

Tim does.

"Missed my cock in your filth?" Tim asks. "Missed having your warm fucking mess pounded?"

"Fuck," Ginger says. "Yes."

Tim laughs.

"Fuck, we really seem to be opening up a dialogue here," he says and slides his palm down Ginger's sweaty spine, over the vertebrae fucking squid don't even have.

"Tell me something else," Ginger says.

"What do you want to hear?" Tim asks, pressing his hand into his lower back, making him slide deeper onto his cock. "You fucking pool of shit. You fucking squid goo. I fucking missed you too."

Ginger moans.

"What should I do to you?" Tim asks. "Tell me."

"Something... Something horrible," Ginger says, panting. "Something disgusting."

"Should I slap your stupid face and make you cry?

"Yes."

"Should I make you ride me till I come inside your hurting dirty fucking hole?"

"Yes."

"Should I make you come listening to me insulting you and then lick your dripping fucking ass?"

"Yes."

"Should I make you come fucking your filth on my cock and then put it into your soft, amenable, accommodating mouth?"

Ginger doesn't answer that. Ginger moans and shudders on top of him, he shakes so violently both of them almost fall.

Tim grabs Ginger's sweaty hand and puts it over his own chest, pressing on it, begging the universe for a fucking singularity, begging to have it inside him, to feel it touching that wretched, appalling thing that is about to go off, poisoning all around them.

"Fuck, Tim," Ginger says, his voice breaking. "Gonna come."

"Are you crying?" Tim asks, moving his hips up to meet him.

"Fuck," Ginger says and yes, he is crying. "Please hold me. Please don't let me go. Gonna fucking come."

Tim wraps his arms tight around him and pushes him down and lifts him up and pushes him down again.

"Come on," he says, gritting his teeth, his mouth full of blood, Ginger's gulping throat in mere centimeters from his face. "Fuck yourself on me. Come on my cock. Make sure it hurts."

Ginger does all of that.

Ginger cries out and clenches around Tim's cock, his body in Tim's arms going tense for several beats of Tim's nuclear bomb.

Ginger comes, shaking, and reverses into his natural state right after that, a ball of boiling plasma from the center of the sun in Tim's arms, liquid and helpless and tender.

Tim flips both of them over, dropping or rather pouring Ginger onto the blankets, towering over him, looking at him, grey in the dim light of the torch and pale and burning red in Tim's eyes.

"Fucking hell, Ginger," Tim says, staring at his wet face. "You're such a mess. I'm gonna explode just looking at you. You're fucking illegal."

Ginger looks up at him with a weak smile.

Ginger looks at his cock.

Tim clenches his fists and then spits into his palm.

Ginger looks up at him again. Ginger licks his fucking lips.

Tim drops his hand to wrap it around his cock.

Ginger looks at his cock. Ginger licks his fucking lips again.

Tim explodes.

 

He knows he is going to do that.

He thinks they both should be fucking killed for that.

He moves as if propelled by a huge wave and sits on top of Ginger, grabbing his hair and yanking his head up.

"Fucking do it already," he spits out. "Eat your fucking shit."

 

Ginger's miserable face shatters into elementary fucking particles.

Or not.

Tim doesn't really know the words that can describe it.

But Tim can speak.

 

"Do it," he says, pressing Ginger's face into his own groin.

Ginger howls and shuts his eyes tight and then licks the tip of Tim's cock.

"Fuck," Tim says.

They both have a seizure.

Ginger is a shaking primordial fucking soup underneath him.

Tim is a shaking nuclear fucking warhead menacing from above.

 

"Again," Tim says, and that thing he cannot describe happens to Ginger's face once more.

He opens his eyes. He shivers. He looks up at Tim. He takes Tim's cock in his mouth. He moans around it.

He fucking moans around it.

Tim fucks Ginger's face for several seconds, holding his head with both his hands, praying for the grace of death and just coming instead, coming boiling hot into Ginger's fucking mouth.

 

They lie on the blankets pressed into each other, Tim running his palms over Ginger's back in an abhorrently tender manner, even though he doesn't think anything can help them anymore.

"We should tell John about this," Ginger says.

"Of course," Tim says.

Tim pulls away a little and looks at Ginger's face.

"Can you kiss me?" Ginger asks.

"Of course," Tim says.

 

They kiss.

They fucking kiss.

 

"Jesus, we're fucked up," Tim says, getting up and giving Ginger a hand too.

Ginger laughs softly.

"Come on," Tim says, picking the blankets off the ground. "Let's wash our repulsive fucking mouths and sleep."

 

*****

 

John looks at them suspiciously in the morning, while Tim makes breakfast on a gas-burner.

"What's going on?" he asks when Tim gives him the cup.

"We docked our spacecrafts in a joint mission," Tim says.

Ginger laughs.

"I hate your fucking metaphors," John says and throws the cup full of hot coffee at him and luckily misses.

 

"Would you like to go to Amsterdam with us?" Tim asks, tapping on the wheel with his fingers, a cigarette hanging from his lips.

"What?" John says, his mouth full of peanuts.

"Ginger wants to go to Amsterdam with me. We'll spend some time together. Have fun. Do you want to go too?"

"Fuck," John says. "You two are fucked up. What are we gonna do there?"

Tim hears Ginger lighting up a cigarette in the back of the car.

"The same things we did in Berlin, but with more drugs," Tim says. "And more herring."

"Herring?" John asks and starts fiddling with the radio. "I am not eating fucking herring."

Tim laughs.

"I'll cook it myself. You eat everything I make."

John hums.

"Okay," he says. "Okay, we can go. I don't know when, though. Fucking touring schedules."

"We'll figure something out," Tim says, turning his face to look at him.

John smiles a crooked smile.

 

They drive south, stopping in their third godforsaken town for lunch, both John and Ginger playing music sitting on the ground, John with guitar in his hands and Ginger tapping on two big bottles Tim threw into the car, one full with water and one now empty, Tim just standing next to them, saying he is not that talented.

"We're gonna be famous one day," John says, chewing the crappy sandwich Ginger bought for him.

 

They stop after it is dark in the middle of nowhere, John saying his back hurts and Ginger trying to give him a rub with his gooey fucking tentacles. Tim pushes him away and finishes the job properly.

Then all three of them lie on the blankets and drink milk out of the cartons, getting their faces white.

Tim puts up the tent for them and lies next to it outside, staring at the starry sky and prepared to listen to them fuck. They don't, though, just whispering something for an hour, Tim gradually falling asleep with the help of this lullaby.

He wakes up feeling Ginger's scared fingers touching his hand. He gets up, but all that he manages to do is wonder what fucked up thing they're going to do this time, because John pokes his head out of the tent, producing a lot of angry noise.

"Can you stop sneaking out behind my back?" he asks. "I am as much a part of this fucking mess as you two are."

Tim laughs.

"Alright," he says, and all of them get into the tent, even though it is really fucking crowded.

"What were you gonna do?" John asks.

"Don't know," Tim says. "Ginger?"

Ginger shrugs, hugging his knees.

"Do you have lube?" Tim asks John.

Of course, John has lube.

"Okay then," Tim says. "Let's get me fucked on my back and kissed a lot."

John laughs.

"I want to fuck you too," he says.

"Well, you'll just have to wait till it's your turn," Tim says. "There isn't enough room for double fucking penetration here. Just whine for now."

Ginger fucks him on his back, hot and sweaty and gentle, both of them staring at each other without actually seeing anything because it is fucking dark in the tent, John whining right into Tim's ear the whole time, pressed into both of them, Ginger coming inside him, shivering and saying he loves him, Tim twisting his cock and beating off, biting into his own hand hard, Ginger still hovering above him, sweat dripping on Tim's snout, John whispering insults that are very much earned into his ear.

Tim pushes Ginger off himself once he is done and finds the bottle of lube again, smearing John's cock in it. Then John fucks him on his back too, hot and sweaty and not gentle at all, just furious thrusts happening over and over again, John's hands gripping his shoulders, Tim cheering him on and crying out a couple of times, Ginger having a fucking seizure pressed into both of them. John comes inside him, biting into his neck, Tim grinning like a particularly maniacal shark, Ginger chanting his "fucks" like a mantra.

All three of them pass out in the tent, one giant radioactive creature covered in bodily fluids and wrapped in blankets.

 

*****

 

"We need a city," John says, itching in the back of the car next to Tim. "I want to take a fucking bath. I want milkshakes. I want to see other people's faces. Faces of people who aren't staring at me."

"Dude, look at yourself," Tim says, chuckling. "You're dressed like a cabare fucking dancer. And beautiful. There isn't a place on this Earth where people aren't gonna stare at you."

Ginger laughs in the driver's seat.

"Yeah, you're just trying to fucking bribe me with your compliments," John says. "I wanna fucking dance. We need a city."

"Okay," Tim says. "Stop whining. If we don't get lost we'll be there in the evening."

John pushes him and Tim winces.

"Fuck, my fucking ass hurts. I need a pharmacy."

"There're pharmacies in the city," John says and pushes him again.

 

They have lunch in the middle of nowhere, eating beans out of the can with their bare hands again.  
Then John gets into the driving seat and Ginger sits with Tim in the back of the car, reading, Tim's head in his lap.

John says he doesn't want the crappy city with a short name, so they drive to the one with the name not one of them can pronounce, arrving after it is dark and tumbling into a hotel Tim's really surprised they were allowed to even come close to.

John takes a long ass bath while Tim and Ginger scrape at each other's skin for ten minutes, getting hard, and then jerk each other off for ten more, Ginger sucking Tim's face like a fucking space monster, Tim hurting Ginger's cock like he does his own but applying somewhat lesser force. Ginger tells him he doesn't fucking like it between the kisses but comes anyway and Tim does too, both of them falling on their butts awkwardly after that and sitting there for another ten minutes, water pouring down on them from above.

Then they go to a club, John dressed like a pimp with a taste for burlesque once again, Tim in Ginger's nerdy shirt and Ginger just pale and tired. Both of them don't do much dancing, Tim because his damn ass still hurts, Ginger because of camaraderie and profound fucking love Tim is sure he shouldn't be allowed to have directed at him, but John dances for both of them too, for fucking hours, never stopping, like a hurricane of feathers and glitter, happy and very much in his element. Tim gets chatted up despite wearing Ginger's nerdy shirt and Ginger sitting there and being nerdy right next to him and gets his hands on pills and gets his pockets full of weed, not touching either because he is just too exhausted.

They try sleeping in a pile of limbs once they get back into the hotel, but there isn't enough room on the two beds they put next to one another, so Tim rolls over and goes to another room to sleep alone, slapping Ginger's fucking tentacles, promising him he'll cut them off and cook them in cream sauce and shove them down his throat, insisting he isn't going anywhere, just to another fucking room, tasting bile in his mouth, John waking up and cursing both of them and their ancestors down to the ape that was their shared one.

Tim sleeps with his face pressed into the pillow, dreaming of being tortured by the Spanish inquistion just like it was described in the book covered in really, really suspicious stains he lifted off Brian some months ago.

 

*****

 

They wake up when it is early afternoon and drag their pitiful bodies out to poke into cathedrals and point at stuff.

They walk into a market, John wandering off with his guitar in unknown direction and Tim giving a tour of the meat section to Ginger, Ginger's terrified fingers in his pocket the entire time, his mouth agape, Tim making him stand the longest near the most disgusting things he can find and then buying a bunch of them too, liver and kidneys and chicken hearts, because he has plans for the evening.

They go looking for John after that, Ginger begging him to throw the meat away, Tim smirking and smoking, and find him surrounded by glistening clothes and ladies who can barely understand what he's talking about but obviously love his magical guitar jerking fingers. He tells them he's buying a dress.

They walk around the city till sunset, bumping into people, John with his guitar and a fucking dress he did buy in his hand, Tim with a bag full of disgusting meat in his, Ginger's hands in both their pockets.

They drive out of the city when it is dark and stop in the middle of nowhere. Tim shoves a couple of the pills he's gotten his hands on the previous night into his mouth and performs his scout fucking duties, collecting sticks and starting the fire, and then his gourmet chef fucking duties, dealing with the meat and chopping onions, while Ginger paints John's face, which takes forever because they just keep kissing all the time. Tim is in the middle of cutting through the kidneys, his hands covered in blood, when John puts on his dress he did fucking buy, giggling like mad, and starts dancing around the fire, Ginger being his support fucking team and tapping wild rhythms on John's guitar.

"Okay," Tim says, grabbing the bowl of chopped meat and getting up. "We're so jerking off in a circle right now."

Which they do after a bit of physical altercation, Tim throwing the bowl on the ground between them, thinking he would've bought the pig's head had he known things would progress into this delightful direction, getting his cock out with his blood covered hand and starting first, John saying he's gonna fucking vomit, pulling his dress up and following him with his angry hand on his cock after Tim says that he's the vomiting one in their relationship, Ginger calling both of them sick fucks and then jerking off too because things heat up pretty quickly between Tim and John, making him lose his fucking mind too.

 _Sorcery_ , Tim thinks, stirring the meat in the pot afterwards while John helps Ginger smoke and declares out loud he won't be going anywhere near Tim's disgusting dinner.

 _Culinary voodoo_ , Tim thinks a bit later, chuckling constantly while both of the bastards stuff their faces with his magnificent dinner with their bare hands and moaning.

 _What have I done to deserve this_ , Tim thinks a lot later than that, both moaning bastards hot and curled up around him in the tent, staring into the black cloth above him and feeling nuclear decay glowing inside his chest.

 

*****

 

"So what are we being today? Wild or civilized?" Tim asks in the morning, giving John his cup.

"Wild," John says, a filthy smile on his pretty face.

Ginger groans and tells them he hates them. Both John and Tim comb his hair five minutes later, and he changes his mind.

 

They drive around the coastal mountain range, getting lost and blaming each other, shouting, throwing socks and peanuts at each other, laughing after that, driving some more, running after one another on the shore, falling into salty water, watching the sunset sitting on the beach and then driving back into the mountains to stop in the middle of nowhere.

Tim makes dinner which is substantially less magnificent than that of the previous night because Ginger finds weed in his pants and they smoke a shit ton of it while John jerks off his guitar, suddenly hit by divine inspiration.

They eat and then Tim and Ginger just lie on the ground unable to stop laughing, talking about Ginger's book he's finished while they were driving as if it wasn't another volume of his philosophy bullshit but the most hilarious thing in the world, John pouting and doing unpleasant things to his strings until Tim drags him to sit next to them and shoves a joint into his mouth, saying if he is going to Amsterdam with them he needs to obtain at least an elementary education.

There is a bit of physical altercation after that.

Then it is all three of them lying on the ground, unable to stop laughing, talking about uncontainable nonsense spilling out of John.

 

They lie in a circle, their heads touching, their limbs thrown wide, passing the joint to one another, looking at the starry sky, Ginger and John whispering and pointing at constellations like stupid teenagers in love. And maybe they actually are.

"Of course I don't fucking know how this one is called," Tim says when he is summoned to provide help. "Stars are not animals or Greek fucking Gods. They are balls of boiling plasma held together by their own gravity."

John pushes him and Ginger asks him a question, so Tim explains the difference between fission and fusion once again, John jabbing him with his magical fingers and Ginger listening with an open mouth.

 

They lie in a circle, their heads touching, their limbs thrown wide, Tim and Ginger sharing a cigarette, John chewing on cookies.

Ginger sighs.

"I uh... I sucked Tim's cock after he fucked me," he says.

Tim chokes on the smoke. John chokes on his damn cookies.

"What?" John asks.

"Yeah," Ginger says, sighing again. "You know, after he pulled out."

"Fuck," John says.

"Just so that we're absolutely clear on this," Tim says after he stops coughing and gives the cigarette to Ginger. "I made him ride me and made him come listening to me talking about that delectable fucking idea and when he turned into the squid jelly I was about to jerk off to he looked at me and licked his damn lips and I went thermonuclear and shoved my fucking cock in his mouth."

"Fucking hell," John says. "When?"

"The night before you caught us sneaking out," Tim says, taking the cigarette back from Ginger.

"That's fucked up," John says.

"Yeah," Ginger says. "Fucking disgusting."

Tim finishes the cigarette and lights up another one. John chews on another cookie.

"Fuck," he says with his mouth full. "Ginj. How did it taste?"

"Fucking hell, John," Tim says, the smoke bursting out of his nostrils as if he is an angry bull.

"You know, the usual," Ginger says, taking the cigarette away from him. "Like Tim's fucking cock."

"Fuck," John says and chews on another cookie. "Was it... Was it, you know..."

"Jesus," Tim says, turning his head to look at him. "Of course not."

"Like you fucking checked," Ginger says and laughs.

"Fuck," John says and jabs his fingers into Tim.

Tim pulls the cigarette out of Ginger's mouth and takes a deep drag.

"You should have seen his face, though," Tim says and chuckles. "Fucking priceless. Like he was gonna come and faint and throw up and cry at the same time."

Ginger pushes him hard.

"Fuck," John says. "This is fucked up. You two are seriously fucking insane."

"Yeah," Tim says.

Ginger takes the cigarette from him.

"Ginj. I wanna see how you do it," John says and tries to pull another cookie out of the package.

"Fucking hell, John," Ginger says and starts coughing violently.

"It's hot," John says.

"Fuck," Ginger says and shoves the cigarette into Tim's hand. "I don't know if I am going to do that again."

Tim laughs out loud, shaking on the ground.

"You are," he says, finally stopping and taking a drag. "And John's gonna watch. But not too fucking often. It is fucking unhygienic."

John laughs out loud, shaking on the ground.

 

They lie in a circle, their heads touching, their limbs thrown wide, Tim and Ginger sharing a cigarette. John sits up and turns around to look at them.

"This one has got to be your biggest fuck up, Tim," he says.

Tim swallows the bile and gives the cigarette to Ginger.

"I fucking doubt it is going to be your last one," John speaks again. "But it is going to be your biggest one. You're only allowed smaller ones from now on."

"Okay," Tim says and clenches his fists.

Ginger sighs next to him.

"You don't run out of the fucking country," John says. "You ask my fucking permission to leave the fucking state."

"Okay," Tim says.

Ginger shoves the cigarette into his mouth.

"You talk to me if you feel you're getting like that again," John says.

"I tried," Tim says and exhales the smoke.

"Try harder. Write me a note if it is so difficult for you to open your stupid mouth," John says and jabs his thigh with his fingers.

"Okay," Tim says.

"And you," John says, turning to look at Ginger. "You should just punch him when he starts behaving like an asshole."

"I don't want to punch him," Ginger says and sighs.

"Yeah, that's the problem," John says and nudges him to sit up. "It's like the only language he understands. Territorial fucking shark."

"You should totally punch me, Ginj," Tim says, sitting up too and putting out the cigarette.

 

 _Tender loving tentacles my ass_ , Tim thinks, spitting out his teeth, lying on the ground, limbs thrown wide, John giggling above him.

"I love you," Ginger says and touches his lips.

"Fucking hell, Ginger," Tim says, pushing his hand away. "I fucking know you do. How many times do you need to tell me? I don't give you lectures on nuclear properties of plutonium my every waking moment, do I?"

"Maybe you fucking should," John says and jabs him with his damn fingers again.

"Or maybe Ginger should finally fucking learn how to apply his emotional arsenal properly and hold his damn feelings over me," Tim says, trying to get away from him.

"Fuck you," Ginger says. "That's not what feelings are for."

Tim laughs out loud, shaking on the ground, John giggling like mad above him, Ginger following them promptly.

"We're fucking wasted," Tim says.

 

They lie in a circle, their heads touching, their limbs thrown wide, John and Ginger sharing cookies. Tim sits up.

"Just in case I fuck up like this again," he starts.

"No," John says.

"Yes," Tim says.

"Fuck, Tim," Ginger says.

"Shut up," Tim says. "Just in case I do it again. I need to finally give you sensible fucking advice on how to dispose of my horrible body after you kill me for that. Which you should, by the way."

"Fuck, Tim," Ginger says again.

"No," John says again.

"Yes. Shut up, both of you. Fucking listen."

 

"Fucking hell, Tim," John says. "Are you out of your mind? Acid. Fucking acid. Fuck."

Ginger shivers next to him.

"Jesus," Tim says, looking down at the pair of white-faced bastards. "I am not a fucking serial killer or anything if you're wondering. I used to fuck with a lady who worked criminal cases back in Europe. She talked a lot. Thought it would make me squirm."

"Fuck," Ginger says.

"That didn't work, though," Tim says and chuckles. "But I've learned some things"

"Sick fuck," John says and shivers too.

 

"Did you hear that?" John asks for the fourteenth billion time.

"Fucking hell, John," Tim says. "There is nobody there. You're just paranoid because of the weed. Trust me."

"Fuck," John says. "I am sure I heard something."

"He's right," Ginger says, hugging him. "And anyway, even if there is somebody, Tim will just fucking eat them."

Tim laughs and hugs John too.

"And we can bury the remains with that fucking shovel I saw in the car the other day," Ginger says.

Tim shivers. John shivers. Ginger shivers.

"Fuck, Tim," Ginger says. "Why is there a fucking shovel in your fucking car?"

 

*****

 

"I'm not doing drugs ever again," John says, throwing up, hanging out of the car window.

"That's just weed," Tim says, chuckling. "It is not even a real drug."

"Fuck off," John says. "Nothing like that enters my mouth ever again."

"Okay," Tim says. "We stick to just cock like before."

Ginger laughs in the back of the car.

 

"I have a gig in three days," John says when they are driving into the capital, sun going down already.

"Fuck it," Tim says.

"Can't," John says. "Missed one already."

"Wow," Ginger says.

"Well..." John says.

"Thank you," Ginger says.

"Alright. We'll get you a plane ticket back. Deal?" Tim asks.

"Okay," John says. "And now we're going to dance."

"Sure," Tim says.

"And no fucking dope," John says.

"Of course," Ginger says. "Thank you."

 

"Tim. Tim," John says, jabbing him with his fingers. "What does it say here?"

"Fucking hell, John," Tim says, trying not to drop Ginger on the ground. "I don't speak fucking Spanish."

"But that's a European language."

Ginger laughs like mad and falls down.

 

"Fuck, Tim," John says, panting behind him. "Does mine look like that too?"

Ginger whines.

"You bet," Tim says, chuckling. "Come on. Get it in."

"Fuck," John says, gripping his shoulders tight.

Ginger moans.

"Ginj," Tim says, touching his teeth with his tongue. "You sure you don't wanna try it too?"

"Fuck," John says. "Shut up."

Ginger shakes.

"You're gonna like it. It is right up your alley," Tim says and gasps, feeling like a giant ball of nuclear gas.

"Fuck," John says, pressing him into Ginger mess underneath them. "You're done. You're fucked. I'm gonna destroy your fucking hole."

Which is not untrue.

 

"A milkshake," John says. "And then we'll go to that cathedral. And you'll brush my hair. And you'll suck me off. I'll fuck your horrible fucking face. And then you'll cook that disgusting meat thing for me again."

"Slow the fuck down," Tim says. "I am making notes."

John giggles.

"Squid?" Tim says, putting a cigarette into Ginger's mouth.

"Fuck off," Ginger says, taking a drag.

"Kissing then," Tim says.

John giggles again.

 

"Fucking careful," Tim says, giving a helping hand to John. "Jesus, you're an awkward bastard. You walk like Ginger fucks."

"Fuck you," John says. "I play guitar. I don't climb fucking volcanoes."

"It's not a volcano," Tim says. "It is just a fucking hill."

"Volcanoes are over there," Ginger says, pointing with his hand. "And fuck you, Tim."

 

"No, I am not with them," Tim says, smiling a polite shark smile. "I am not that talented."

 

"Tim. Who's that woman again?" John asks, chewing on popcorn and looking at the screen.

"Fuck's sake," Tim says. "I don't know. I don't understand a single thing. I don't speak fucking Spanish."

"I think she's the wife of that moustache guy," Ginger says, shifting in his seat.

"The fuck do you know?" Tim asks, dropping his hand to touch what's causing him troubles. "You've been devouring my fucking face for the last hour."

John giggles.

 

"Fuck," Ginger says, leaning on Tim's shoulder. "How is he not fucking dead yet?"

They look at John dancing in the middle of the crowd, feathers and glitter and leather pants and a beautiful fucking face.

"He's a young fucking soul," Tim says, puffing out the smoke. "We're just ancient turds."

Ginger shakes with laughter next to him.

"Come on," Tim says. "Let's dance too. Let's rock these nerdy shirts of yours."

 

"Stop sucking each other's faces already," Tim says. "You're gonna be late. You're gonna miss your fucking gig."

"Fuck off," John says and puts on his hideous sunglasses. "We love each other. You're just a hungry shark."

"We'll come to yours when we get back, okay?" Ginger says and kisses John again. "You'll tell me about the concert."

"Sure," John says and kisses Ginger again. "Tim, bring that motherfucking bass you bought. We're gonna jam."

Tim smiles and looks at kissing bastards with hooded eyes.

They wave at John.

Ginger touches his hand with his scared fingers.

Tim kisses them.

"Come on," Tim says. "Our shit eating faces. Pillow. We have an endless void to cross ahead of us."

\---------------------------------


End file.
